


Still with Hearts Beating

by aliatori



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 20:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19181275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/pseuds/aliatori
Summary: Someone else can be Captain. Someone else can be a hero. Someone else can rebuild the world that has no place for an Amicitia.Gladio’s done.Dawn returns, Eos is saved, and Gladio is more alone than ever.





	Still with Hearts Beating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roadsoftrial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/gifts).



> This is a lot heavier than my usual wheelhouse. Please, please mind the tags!
> 
> Though this piece is a gift for roads, she did a lot of the initial brainstorming in the early stages. Thanks for always encouraging my truth. <3

When Gladio takes a step towards the throne, it is the most difficult step he’s taken in ten long years of darkness—in his entire life. Ignis and Prompto, almost as though sensing that this is Gladio’s final burden to bear, step backwards, and Gladio stalwartly ignores the tears streaming down both of their faces before they can be the last pebbles on top of his mountain of grief, burying him in an avalanche from which he may never recover.

Bile rises in Gladio’s throat with each inch he gains on his objective, but he swallows it down over and over, unwilling to add his dignity to the endless lists of sacrifices the four of them have made. Sunlight already begins to stream through the high windows of the throne room. A farce. A charade. Surely after all of the struggle, all of the blood and sweat and tears, after such resolute perseverance, after carving out a single bastion of safety in which to await Noct’s return, fate would be kinder.

The sword pinning Noct to the throne like a collector’s butterfly, wine dark blood still glimmering wetly on the blade, proves fate never had any intention of kindness. Decrepit gods and ghostly kings couldn’t even grant him the courtesy of an instant death. A messy sacrifice to prophecy, bleeding out from a gut wound caused by his own father’s sword, on a throne he never got to sit on alive, each and every moment sheer agony.

Gladio should have been there.

He wasn’t.

He takes several more steps forward anyway.

He’s close enough now to make out Noct’s features—head bowed, long black eyelashes barely brushing pale, bearded cheeks, hands open and still beside him. Gladio could never forget the sight of Noct sleeping, curled in the backseat of the Regalia or stretched out on the couch in his apartment or cradled in Gladio’s arms a mere twelve hours ago. At a glance, he can pretend Noct _is_ sleeping, that this is nothing more than the same cruel dream he’s had a hundred times before, that he’ll wake up and Noct will be safe along with the world.

(There’s a photo pinned by Noct’s still, bloody hand: a picture of Gladio in front of the Regalia, from what feels like a lifetime ago, a younger version of himself free of ghosts clinging to his bones like shackles. His mind registers the image, then releases it seconds later, preserving the scrap of Gladio’s sanity not claimed by a decade of dark and despair.)

The illusion of repose drains away like dirty water down a sink the moment Gladio takes hold of the sword. He has to get Noct’s body down. The least they owe him for his sacrifice is not letting him rot on a token throne. _Gladio_ owes him; seeing Noct laid to rest won’t change the fact Gladio failed him, won’t atone for a sin that will stain his soul for the remainder of his living days, but it’s a task that must be done, and Gladio has always excelled at _necessary_.

It’s only when he begins to pull the sword from Noct’s body that he realizes he’s weeping silently.

Still, he soldiers on, one hand braced against Noct’s lifeless shoulder and the other removing the sword from flesh and stone. Gladio tries desperately to ignore the wet suction of flesh as the blade is finally clear, tossing the relic to the side with a clatter that echoes through the room and his bones alike. It’s not the first body Gladio has carried, not even the first body that belonged to someone Gladio loved, but it is unequivocally, irrevocably the hardest.

There is no heavier weight in the world than the weight of his king’s body in Gladio’s arms.

Of _Noctis’_ body.

Muscle memory guides him to the royal mausoleum while other recollections sweep him away in their sorrowful eddies.

Noct, who would hide behind Gladio when they were children, peeking out from behind his legs each time he met a stranger, only to dart out from behind them and burble with laughter once he’d had enough time to adjust.

Noct, who Gladio almost lost before either of their lives had truly begun, flesh rent by the cruel talons of a Marilith, leaving scars and pain that would plague him for years to come.

Noct, whose twilight eyes shone with such brilliant challenge the first time he bested Gladio in sparring, his smile no less triumphant for its shyness.

Noct, who stumbled his way through an awkward confession before Gladio leaned in and kissed him, continuing his sentence with a confession all his own.

Noct, who would argue with him about an item in King’s Knight in one breath and ask Gladio to hold him in the next, a quiet and fierce prince full of contradictions, who Gladio loved enough to die for even if he hadn’t been born and sworn to anyway.

Noct, who made Gladio promise in the still, dark confines of a Hammerhead caravan to keep on living without him.

The closer they get to the royal mausoleum, the less Gladio wants to keep that promise.

It’s Prompto who pushes the stone doors open. Gladio can’t bring himself to take one step closer to the marble tombs, just stand there with Noct’s body cradled to his chest, so it’s Prompto and Ignis who manage to remove the lid of one of them, the low, echoing scrape of marble against stone duplicated within Gladio’s chest. It’s a beautiful grave, but a grave nonetheless, and every step towards it feels like Gladio’s feet have turned to stone too.

How many times has he carried Noctis throughout the years, Gladio wonders, and why is the last time so gods damn hard?

He lays Noctis in the empty space gently, cradling his head as though it matters, tears pouring down his face, hot and constant. Ignis reaches a hand down and gingerly feels for Noctis’ face, making an ugly, choked sob as his fingers map out Noct’s features for the last time. As soon as Noct is laid to rest, Gladio can’t bear to touch him, can’t bear to risk sullying the memory of Noct alive with the cool skin of his lifeless corpse. The bile returns with a vengeance and Gladio has to dig his blunt nails into his palms to keep from emptying his stomach all over the tomb.

Noct is gone.

Gladio sinks to the floor with his back against the tomb. He can’t stand anymore. He can’t fight. Noct’s death has wrapped around his ankles like an anchor and is dragging him under, under, under, and no amount of promises or oaths can prevent him from sinking. Sobs wrack his body, powerful and unrelenting, an endless well of tears fueled by an endless expanse of grief. Gladio wants nothing more than to stay here forever and starve, to be entombed with his king—with the king he loved—and never see the cursed light Noct died to bring.

It turns out he does have fight left in him, however.

He fights Ignis and Prompto bitterly as they drag him away, thrashing in their grip, body surging towards Noct’s final resting place like its become his magnetic north. He bellows and screams and sobs his rage at the cruelty of the gods until his throat is raw, until the screams turn into emphatic rasps, until there’s nothing left to do but allow his friends to lead him away as he sucks in ragged breaths he doesn’t want to take at all.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his voice heavy and coarse from the force of his grief, his own body limp and motionless. Prompto murmurs some wordless platitude, but the apology wasn’t meant for him.

It was meant for Noct.

* * *

The only thing Gladio leaves behind in Lestallum is a resignation letter on his desk.

He held the pieces of himself together for a month before waking up one morning with the overpowering urge to _go_. Gladio has a plan, but it doesn’t involve a single trapping of the status that once meant so much to him, and it _certainly_ has no contingencies for coming back. The only plan is to get as far away from everything he’s ever known as possible. The daemons are gone and in their place are a hundred thousand spectres, each one a memory of Noctis or of his old life, and Gladio can’t bear to watch the rest of the world move on around him with his heart permanently trapped in the past, like withered fossil encased in dark amber.

Reports from outposts across the country all say the same thing: all trace of the Scourge is gone. When Noct died and the crystal shattered, the magic must have been even farther reaching than Gladio—or anyone—anticipated. Polluted rivers run clean and full of life, stunted trees show decades worth of growth in days, and fields of dead vegetation are full of new, springy grass and wild crops.

It’s a cheap consolation prize. Gladio will accept it anyway.

He figures he has about six hours before anyone finds the letter, so he gathered his supplies beforehand in order to set out in the dead of night. There’s one silver lining to the cesspit that was the World of Ruin—Gladio has no problem navigating in darkness. He runs through his checklist one final time: backpacking tent, sleeping bag, rations for two weeks if he’s careful, water filters, clothing for spring and fall, camping stove, flashlights, batteries, first aid kit, compass, toiletries, a few other necessities, and of course a sword, though it’s a small one-hander and not a greatsword.

No shield. He left his favourite back in Noct’s tomb, and getting a new one would be as pointless as Gladio is now.

As soon as night falls, Gladio’s hand is on the doorknob, ready to go. His gaze catches on the cellphone resting on his single end table. Service is a lot better these days, but Gladio figures he won’t need a phone where he’s going. He won’t need much of what he’s taking, to be honest, but he won’t risk being robbed of the last choice he can make by starvation or exposure. He taps his foot a few times while he considers before grabbing the phone and shoving it in his pocket.

It has pictures of Noct that he’d like to look at before the end.

Gladio doesn’t even bother locking the door behind him. Maybe one lucky thief will enjoy some oversized Glaive uniforms or the collected naturalist histories of Sylvester Yeagre. A few winding routes through the back alleys of Lestallum has him jogging down the stone steps leading to the city, the bright glow of the power plant behind him and open terrain in front of him.

He does not look back.

* * *

Gladio makes it a quarter of the way through Duscae before the phone calls and text messages start. He ignores the periodic flashes of light through his pocket as messages continue to come in. Whatever they have to say doesn’t matter. As soon as the phone begins to ring steadily, Gladio turns it off and shoves it deep in his backpack. He’s sure the stupid thing has some kind of GPS built in and he doesn’t want anyone following him.

He did his job. He saved the Six damned world… no, he stood on the steps of the Citadel as _Noct_ died for it… and now he just wants to rest, too. For ten long, exhausting years, he fought tooth and nail to keep what was left of Eos safe, tackling every challenge with dirt on his face and blood under his nails. He helped Iggy stand on his own two feet again after his injury, helped Prompto learn to live in a harsh, unfeeling world, helped Iris train to become a daemon hunter in her own right. He sent soldiers to their deaths and carried their broken bodies back home and shared whiskey and sorrow alike with Cor to mourn their loss. After all of that, still he endured, but Gladio always wondered when he’d reach the bottomless well of grit trained into him since birth.

He’s found it. Hell, not only has he found it, he sits on the floor of it, head craned towards all the light he doesn’t want to see, the light his king died to bring. Gladio scoffs and picks up his pace, leaning on the thick tree branch he commandeered as a walking stick.

Someone else can be Captain. Someone else can be a hero. Someone else can rebuild the world that has no place for an Amicitia.

Gladio’s done.

* * *

The Rock of Ravatogh looms.

He doesn’t know how long it took him to reach his destination. Time means about as much to Gladio as his life does at this point: nothing. Thanks to a series of powerful thunderstorms and a twisted ankle from a moment of carelessness, it took him longer than expected. Once his rations ran down, Gladio started setting snares for rabbits and other small game, foraging as best he could with his injury. Wild onions and stringy, gamey meat don’t make for gourmet meals, but they keep him moving, one foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

Gladio’s so very close to the end of his journey. Only the knowledge that Noct is waiting for him makes his steps feel less cumbersome (though it does nothing to de-petrify his heart). In a way, he’s been living with feet of stone since putting what was left of Noct to rest, but with every day’s passage, the stone crept up from his feet to his knees, then to his thighs, then to his waist, and now it’s only a matter of time before he’s a statue, cold and unfeeling. Gladio’s instincts point to a single cure to relieve him of this heaviness.

Death.

He considered falling upon his sword like the Amicitia Shields of old once did, taking his own life as punishment for failing his king. It certainly would have been faster than a month long trek on foot to the Rock of Ravatogh. Two things stopped Gladio. One of them is that he can no longer be called a Shield of anything and therefore no longer has the right of a quick, honorable death. The second consideration is… despite everything, he’d like to see Eos from on high one last time before he goes.

To see what Noct died for.

Gladio stands at the base of Ravatogh and adjusts his backpack. It’s one of the hardest climbs he knows and he’s only done it twice, once with Nyx and once during the road trip, and now half the people he’s climbed it with are dead.

More than half, soon.

There’s no more time for thinking as he begins climbing the mountain.

The smell of sulphur from the natural gas vents and burnt rubber from the soles of his combat boots fills Gladio’s nostrils in a noxious combination. It only takes a handful of minutes for sweat to begin streaming from every pore, drenching his already dirty clothes. Still, all of this is impermanent. The only thing that matters now is getting to the peak—and the fall afterwards, the inevitable conclusion to a plummet that began as soon as Gladio saw Noct’s body pinned to a pointless throne. Where once tears would have stung his eyes along with the sweat pouring down his face, Gladio feels nothing, his heart a useless, pointless, broken thing inside his chest.

In fact, the higher Gladio climbs, the more wildlife he culls along the way, the more of the sky visible in the shimmering heat drifting off of Ravatogh, the more _hopeful_ he feels. There’s an end to his suffering waiting. An end to a life he no longer wants, despite the price paid to give it to him.

He climbs faster, pushes himself harder, digs deeper than he has in a long, long while. Every heaving breath he takes is one breath closer to his last, to letting go of not only the burden he carries now, but of any burden he could ever be asked to carry.

To seeing Noct again.

By the time he crests the final ascent of the mountain, Gladio feels a stunning approximation of exhilaration. He’s so close to freedom. To release. To relief. The very air around him echoes the feeling, the temperature much cooler here on the solidified plateau of magma, sweat drying along the faded lines of his tattoo. Another permanent reminder of his failure he’ll be rid of soon.

Gladio finds a solid, stable patch of ground at the base of the jagged peaks forming the bowl at the top of Ravatogh. He drops his pack on the ground unceremoniously and rummages through it, fishing out his long neglected phone. It isn’t flashy, but the military grade battery does the trick, and Gladio breathes out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding when the phone powers on. A million notifications pop up at once and, like he has been for over a month, Gladio ignores them.

As his thumb hovers over the camera icon, Gladio pauses, Iris’ name flashing on one of the many notifications pinging on his phone. For a moment, he wonders if maybe he _should_ at least say goodbye to her… tell her it wasn’t her fault. That as much as he loves her, sometimes love isn’t enough. That sometimes its too much and sucks us into the gaping chasm it leaves behind when it’s gone. Slowly, his thumb drifts to the message icon, a slight tremor coursing through his hand.

No. The decision is as swift and sudden as Leviathan’s rage.

No one cares, anyway. His usefulness died with Noct.

Gladio taps the photo icon instead.

There are only two photos he wants to look at before he climbs the last two metres and finally brings his freefall of grief to an end. The first is over a decade old by this point and the first in his favourites folder. Gladio sits beside Noct at one of their many campfires, a dark and misty background of forest behind them. Noct faces him, expression soft, lips slightly parted, the picture taken right as he’d begun speaking. Gladio smiles at him—a small one, but a smile nonetheless, an expression he can’t copy now in the present day. Aside from being aesthetically pleasing, there’s not much special to a casual onlooker about the picture.

To Gladio, however…

He remembers the night in perfect clarity. It had been shortly after their confrontation with Titan, one of the evenings they’d spent regrouping at a nearby haven. Loving Noct, for as fiercely as Gladio had loved him… as fiercely as Gladio _still_ loves him… had never been easy. The days after Titan had been fraught with tension, fighting, bickering, you name it. But that night, finally, Noct had crawled out of the tent and come to sit beside Gladio at the fire, leaning his back against Gladio’s arm.

 _Thank you_ , he’d said. Two simple words that had meant the world to Gladio.

“You’re welcome,” Gladio says out loud, voice hoarse from disuse as he meanders in memory, unsure if Noct would accept his gratitude if he knew what he was planning to do now.

He stares at the picture for a while longer. The image of Noct as prince seems further and further away in his mind, hazy, like the evaporating details of a dream upon waking. But here, looking at a random, candid photograph, Gladio is struck all over again by how handsome he was, so opposite to Gladio in so many ways, and how they loved each other despite their differences. Even if they didn’t say it, even if a lot of the time they didn’t _act_ like it to onlookers, it had been there, as deep and certain as the blood oath they shared.

Gladio taps to the next picture, one of two in the folder.

He and Noct stand backlit by the harsh, artificial UV light of Hammerhead. All you can make out is their silhouettes because of the angle, but there’s no mistaking Gladio’s frame, and Gladio would know Noct’s profile by heart. Their foreheads are touching. A heated curl of anger and shame comes to life in Gladio as he remembers begging for Noct to stay.

 _“You spent all this time trying to get me to do my duty, and_ now _you want me to slack off?” Noct asked, trying to tease him like the old days, but the words rip open the fresh wound anew._

“No. I just… can’t lose you again,” Gladio says to the open mountain air, the words seared into his mind as though branded there by flame.

_“I have to do this,” Noct said, his own voice thick and ragged with tears. “I don’t have a choice. It’s me or… everyone in all of Eos.”_

The shame burns hotter. “You’re everyone to me,” Gladio mutters aloud, and finally tears start to fall, relatively cool compared to the searing heat of Ravatogh, splattering on the screen of his phone and distorting the picture it displays.

He swipes the pad of his thumb across the wet screen (the same way he used to follow Noct’s cheekbone) and turns off the phone.

Puts it in his backpack.

Leaves the backpack on the ground.

Stands.

Climbs.

All that lies between Gladio and a precipitous fall are two shaky footholds.

He’ll never swear by the Six again, not after what they did… or what Gladio thinks they did… but the sight before him is enough to take his breath away.

A sheer, obsidian cliff face bleeds into beautiful grassland, a passing breeze stirring the blades in a gentle caress. Has the sky always been this blue? A different shade than his favourite, more watercolour pastel than sapphire, but gorgeous nonetheless. Looking out over Lucis to distant mountains on the horizon… there’s no trace of the Scourge Gladio fought back for years. No sign of the struggle. The only scars left from the conflict are carved into human skin, blood, and memory.

Gladio should know. For the next few minutes, he carries enough of them all on his own.

Another step upwards and his position becomes more unstable. There’s more of him _over_ the cliff face than under it, and his swollen ankle makes it harder to keep his balance. Gladio takes a deep breath and looks down to the jagged rocks below.

Instead of terror, all he feels is a disquieting sense of inevitability.

This is really it.

The end.

He lifts one foot, then the other, balanced on the razor’s edge.

All he needs to do is lean forward.

To let go.

“Gladio? You promised!”

Noct?

By old, ingrained habit, Gladio whirls around, searching for the source of the voice he’d follow to the end of Eos, and the momentum sends him pitching backwards, tumbling over and over again down the slope of the bowl forming Ravatogh’s peak. 

It’s not quite as long a fall as the one he was planning to take, but it’s long enough, and by the time he comes to a crumpled stop at the bottom, Gladio knows three facts for certain. The first: he’s broken a thing or two or six, judging by the fresh, wet, bright blossoms of pain at key points along his body. The second: Noct’s voice might have been clear as crystal to him, but he’s still alone here at the summit of Ravatogh, as alone as he’s been for the past month.

(For the past ten years.)

The third:

His will to live has reappeared with stunning, biological ferocity, but he’s still going to die.

Just not as quickly.

* * *

To Gladio’s credit, he drags himself halfway down a burning mountain before unconsciousness sweeps over him in a black tidal wave, and if he were still awake to do so, he would have wept in relief from the agony consuming him.

He waits for some confirmation that he’s made it back to Noct.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get it.

What he does get are a series of images and sensations with no way of discerning their truth. A brown haired man. Noct’s smile. Intense pain in his arm. Amaryllis flowers in full bloom in his mother’s garden. A canteen being nudged to his lips. Iris whispering. Someone stretching the taut, painful skin of his fingers. Noct’s laugh. Uncomfortable pressure as his ribs are re-bandaged. Noct’s eyes.

Gladio gets the feeling—if you can call the hallucinations from a fever burning you from the inside out a ‘feeling’—that he stands at a crossroads, at two forks in the road. Down one path is Noct, clean shaven and sitting on his throne, no sword through his belly and air in his lungs, beckoning Gladio to take his rightful place by his side.

Down the other…

Down the other is the face of every person he tried to leave behind, a grim procession. Ignis. Prompto. Iris. Cor. Aranea. Sania. The Kingsglaive.

He starts down the path towards Noct. Gladio makes it three steps before Noct holds up a hand.

“Giving up already, Gladio?”

In the way of fever dreams, Gladio finds himself beside Noct, toes on the edge of a threshold he can’t quite seem to cross. “I ain’t giving up. I’m done.”

“Are you?” Noct asks, eyes twinkling with quiet mirth. It’s a very familiar look, one he was fond of giving Gladio when he was being an ass just to push Gladio’s buttons.

“Eos saved. The line of Lucis gone. Don’t think there’s much point in me sticking around much longer. What’s a Shield without his king,” Gladio says conversationally, as though they’re talking about a training session and not about Gladio crossing over to the next life. Whatever it is.

Noct gives him another _look_ accompanied by an upward flick of his eyes. “Yeah. I guess so. If you wanna come on over, be my guest.” He shrugs as though he couldn’t care less.

A comfortable anger flickers to life in Gladio’s chest, and he’ll admit, it feels nice in comparison to the complete absence of any identifiable emotion. He’d rather be angry than be nothing. “After everything I did for you, that’s it? ‘Be my guest’?”

“Look, Gladio…” Noct stands from his throne, every crease in his royal raiment immaculate. “I’ve never been able to stop you when you set your mind to something.”

“Could say the same about you.”

Noct’s soft laugh twists the anger into a more palatable sensation, blurred at the edges but no less intense. “You could. But…” When Noct takes Gladio’s hand in his, all the heat of his anger vanishes, leaving only a painful fullness in his heart. “Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like not to have to chase after _me_ all the time? What it’s like to live for yourself? Not answer to anyone? Find out what _you_ want?”

A traitorous thought condensed into a single word— _yes_ —streaks through his mind like a shooting star. “Sure,” Gladio says, because he could never lie to Noct, not even a version he’s not sure is real. “I’ve thought about it. Hell, anyone would, dealing with you every day.”

“Fair,” Noct agrees with a fond, self-deprecating smile, squeezing Gladio’s hand tighter.

“Besides which, I can’t seem to talk my heart out of being in love with you even though you’re gone, more the idiot it makes me,” Gladio says, talking around a thick lump in his throat.

“Never were very bright, were you, huh?” Noct asks. When Gladio pins him with his best glare, he holds his free hand up. “Right, right, I’m teasing.” He pauses and meets Gladio’s eyes, a somber light suffusing their twilight depths. “But really… if you’re _sure_ this is what you want, I won’t stop you anymore. But if you even think there’s a _chance_ that you could be happy… I think Eos would be lucky to have you, for a little longer.”

It’s a strange habit these days where Gladio begins to weep without effort, a habit that carries over into his dreams that might not be dreams. “And what about you?” he asks through the tears. The subtext is evident. _Wouldn’t_ you _be lucky to have me?_

Noct stands on his toes and brushes his lips to Gladio’s in a phantasmal kiss. “Whether it’s tomorrow or in 80 years… I’ll be waiting. I got nothin’ but time now. So what do you say? Wanna give it a shot out there, big guy?”

Gladio counts out seven heartbeats before he nods.

He’ll come back, but he’s not going home.

As soon as the thought crystallizes in his mind, he opens his eyes and finds the world waiting.

* * *

The man who saved Gladio’s life is a healer named Silas. Silas was traveling up Ravatogh for a rare variety of plant that only grows on the mountain, and halfway up, he found Gladio. That’s about all the information Gladio gets before he fishes the sack of gil out of his backpack, leaves it on the healer’s table, and walks out the door of the tiny, rustic cottage, headed for parts unknown. 

His mother taught him better, sure, and his father too, but Gladio reckons a near death experience will excuse any lapse in his manners.

A combination of hiking, both hitch and the normal variety, gets him to the nearest settlement. The girl who picks him up in her battered truck doesn’t seem to mind that he hasn’t had a real bath in… well, he doesn’t know how many days… or that he’s not exactly at his conversational best. She chats about the miracle that saved Eos, about the disappearance of the Scourge, about her crops set to harvest in the fall, and about her new wife, which fills the silence just fine. She doesn’t seem to connect the dots on who Gladio is, and that suits him too. When they reach town, she drops him off with a cheerful wave and her best wishes.

Gladio says thanks. He thinks.

The town—a sign says Verinas, but it doesn’t ring any bells to Gladio—has a Crow’s Nest tucked underneath leftover industrial UV lights from their time in the darkness. He heads towards the diner as though his feet have a mind of their own.

Maybe they do.

Once he’s settled at the counter, he orders a platter of Kenny’s salmon and two glasses of water, suddenly parched beyond words. On the way in, he saw a motel, and he might have enough spare gil to get a room for the night. If not, he can probably trade some labour for a night’s rest and a hot shower. Even though his body is _not_ what it used to be… shoulda asked the healer how long he was out of commission… it’ll hold up to mindless wood chopping or roof repairs.

He’s halfway through his salmon when the plan changes.

“My Lord Amicitia?” a young woman with a pale blonde bun and a Hunter’s uniform asks. “Is it really you?”

Shit.

“Uh, yeah?” Gladio says around a mouthful of fish. “Hey.”

The woman approaches with brisk footfalls. “Astrals, I can’t believe it’s you. Insomnia has been broadcasting regular bulletins about your disappearance. Where have you been?”

Gladio drops his fork with a loud clatter of metal against porcelain. As a 6’6” muscular man with extensive combat experience, he’s rarely felt trapped before, but now, a stranger barrelling towards him with a title he buried along with Noct on her lips... he may as well be a caged animal. Panicky. Nervous. Everything he used to _not_ be, a lifetime and a half ago. 

“Away,” Gladio says slowly, already rising from the stool, the pleather squeaking as he does so.

“They had to reorganize the entire Kingsglaive. Some of us Hunters filled in the gaps in other regions of Lucis while they figured it out. They’ll be so, so happy you’ve returned, Lord Amicitia.”

At the mention of the Kingsglaive, a vice of panic grips Gladio’s heart. It’s foreign and animal and utterly terrifying. He remembers everything in a fluid rush, from the present day backwards: his ride to town, his fever dreams, his climb and fall on the mountain, his resignation, his last moments with Noct.

With Noct. Noct, who is dead. His whole reason for being, gone.

Gladio backs away, fear pulsing with every thunderous lurch of his heart. “I’m sure they will,” he says, and he sounds petrified to his own hearing. “Are the caravans still running? I could catch a ride.”

The woman, having clearly picked up on Gladio’s sudden, irrational fear, makes soothing motions with her palms. “My Lord Amicitia… it’s alright. We don’t even have to go today. I have my own van. The people are worried about you, my lord. No one’s going to hurt you.”

He needs to get away. 

He’s not going back.

He won’t answer to anyone.

Not anymore.

Gladio sprints out the Crow’s Nest before his rational mind has a chance to talk him out of it. His backpack bounces against his spine with each miniature leap. Fuck, his stamina isn’t what it used to be. He’s barely across the modest parking lot when he hears the woman’s voice faintly calling after him.

“My Lord Amicitia, wait, please! Come back!”

He keeps running, runs until his lungs have been replaced with two organic sacks of fire, until his legs are gelatinous beneath him, until sweat pours down every inch of his skin, until his ribs ache like they’re broken all over again, until he collapses to the forest floor, gazing at the sky, gasping for breath. He’s never run from anything his entire life until the dawn returned… now he can’t seem to stop running.

Or failing. 

_Coward_. 

It’s true. Gladio is a coward _and_ a failure, and yet… he can’t bring himself to care.

* * *

The first weeks are rough.

Shelter, water, and food become Gladio’s priorities, in that order. In a way, it’s comforting. He spent ten years fighting tooth and nail for survival, and here he is again, alone and fighting for survival in a whole new way. It’s familiar.

It’s routine.

It keeps him from giving in to the insidious urge, one that slithers up along his spine and curls around his thoughts, to lay down and fucking die. Gladio remembers the burst of certainty about his will to live at the top of Ravatogh, but the conviction grows more faint day by day, as though the very act of living erodes a reserve he doesn’t know how to refill.

But as long as there’s still a lean-to to build, foraging to finish, fires to stoke, water to collect, and miles to walk, it keeps Gladio moving, and as long as he’s moving, he can’t stop forever.

You know what they say, though. Fix one problem and two more are sure to pop up in its place. He might be alive, but also…

He might be losing his mind.

Gladio’s doesn’t have a calendar handy to keep track of the day, but judging by the way sunset comes sooner and daybreak comes later, it must be getting close to the end of summer.

He’s kneeling, washing a small bundle of velvety mushrooms in a nearby river, when he hears a voice.

“Ugh. Always hate when you and Iggy try to sneak those into dinner.”

Every muscle in Gladio’s body freezes; thankfully, his thick fingers clamp around the prize in his hands, because these are the first non-toxic plants he’s come across in three days. Only his eyes move, shifting infinitesimally upwards, inch by inch, until his gaze is directed across the clearing.

To Noct.

“You’re not real?” Gladio says, hating how the words have enough of a question in them to make him sound uncertain.

Noct sits cross legged on an outcropping of rock not unlike the ones he used to warp back and forth between, all those years ago. He’s the version of himself Gladio sees most often in his waking and sleeping dreams: messy spikes of hair, pouty lips, all black clothes, and shitkicker boots with royal red soles.

“Dunno. Depends on what you count as real, I guess. Never was much for philosophy,” Noct says, the last words distorted by a big yawn. “Maybe you just ate some bad ‘shrooms.”

“Not likely,” Gladio says cautiously. “Only you and Prompto were stupid enough to eat hallucinogens.” He can’t say Noct’s name and barely manages Prompto’s—it’s like battery acid on his tongue.

“Ooooh, look who’s using all the _fancy_ words. So impressive,” Noct drawls.

This is insane. _He’s_ insane. Gladio knows, the knowledge buried deep beneath what is probably a psychotic break (if all the PTSD training he took in his previous life had two gil worth of truth), that Noct is dead. That it’s chronologically impossible for 20 year old Noct to be sitting across the way from him, bantering like the old days.

“What do you want?” Gladio asks, voice hoarse from disuse.

“Just wondering when you’re going to stop being nature boy and come to bed. I’m tired. Can’t seem to sleep without your snoring lately, though,” Noct answers.

Gladio screws his eyes shut against the lance of pain through his chest, the pain so sharp and sudden it’s like he’s been impaled. His hands begin to tremble so badly that he spills the mushrooms all over the grass. Has he forgotten how to breathe? No, he’s breathing too much—gotta slow it down. Count to 10. Make sure to actually get air. Gladio sits there shaking until he regains a more firm foothold in reality.

When Gladio opens his eyes again, Noct is gone, and he’s not sure what’s worse: the fact that his dead lover and king is appearing to him in hallucinations, or the overwhelming sorrow that he’s alone again.

* * *

A few days after Noct’s first appearance, Gladio decides to try going into town. After all, seeing other people seems like a reasonable way to stop his mind from inventing dead loved ones to keep him company.

This, as it turns out, is a horrible idea.

He does a few hunts for some pocket change—daemons might be gone, but there are still completely natural threats to be found in the wild. That part goes alright. He even has his first hot meal with _salt_ for the first time in over a month, and that’s nice too, despite the richness of the fare upsetting his stomach. Gladio doesn’t think too long _or_ too hard about how he looks, but the worried looks the waitress of the local Crow’s Nest shoot him sort of speak for themselves. He sleeps in a real motel bed with a real hot shower, and he starts to think… maybe, just maybe, he could go back home and have all these things all the time.

Then he goes for a drink.

One drink becomes two becomes half becomes an entire bottle of strong Leidan whiskey. Gods, it burns so good on the way down, especially since his tolerance is shot from months of forced sobriety. The clatter of glass, the slosh of liquid, the drone of the television, the dingy water stains on the countertop, and the hard wood of the stool all blend together in a pleasant amalgam of “bar” in Gladio’s intoxicated mind.

Intoxicated? Shit, he’s fucking _wasted_. But being wasted doesn’t render him deaf, which puts the match to the powderkeg of the evening.

“Good goddamn riddance to the kings of Lucis. Never needed ‘em anyway. Whole country’s better off with ‘em gone,” a blonde man around Gladio’s age declares to the assembled patronage of whatever dive this is.

There’s a startling crash of glass; Gladio realizes in the sluggish, syrupy way of the incredibly drunk that it’s _his_ glass—that he flung it across the room straight at the guy’s head. 

“What the hell?!” the man exclaims. He jumps up from his stool, hefts it in the air, and throws the piece of furniture back at Gladio.

Gladio doesn’t remember much after that. A combination of being blackout drunk, incensed, and taking several good blows to the head will do that. One of the clearest memories from the event—aside from the rage flowing through his veins like jagged pieces of the glass he broke and the eight people hauling his ass out the bar—is how _great_ it felt to beat the pulp out of another human being. How each blow he struck against flesh brought him a feral sense of satisfaction. How, if he hadn’t been stopped, he would have kept going until he killed the guy.

All for mouthing off about Lucis.

(About Noct.)

He staggers away from the outpost, knuckles stripped and nose bloody. All he can taste is copper from the blood running down the back of his throat. The combination of swallowing down his own blood and a bottle of full strength whiskey doubles him over; he’s violently ill, retching over and over again until he’s puked up the contents of his stomach.

As he wipes the back of his mouth with he hands, he sees Noct waiting off to the side, looking mildly disgusted.

“That went well,” Noct says.

“Shut up,” Gladio slurs.

“Since when have I ever done what you tell me?”

“Since never.”

“Exactly,” Noct says. He takes Gladio by the arm, though he wrinkles his nose as he does so. “C’mon. Let’s get back to camp.”

(Is it better or worse that Gladio can _feel_ Noct now?)

“I don’t need…” Gladio begins, the words drowning in a new wave of nausea. He leans against a scraggly tree and dry heaves for a minute or two. “... don’t need you.”

“You might not need me,” Noct says calmly, “but it looks like you’re stuck with me.”

“Story of my fuckin’ life,” Gladio growls through his busted lip.

At least they were nice enough to throw his backpack out with him.

* * *

After the bar incident—after Noct’s return—Gladio decides he’s not fit for human company. He decides, if he’s going to hang on to the one promise he made Noct, the promise that he’d try to live without him, he’ll spend the rest of his days in nature, living off the land.

It would be easier to believe he wasn’t insane if Noct didn’t keep showing up, though.

“I have a crazy idea,” Noct says.

Gladio glances up from his task of building a makeshift bed out of reeds collected from the nearby riverbed. “You say that like this whole situation isn’t behemothshit levels of screwed.”

Noct pockets his phone and blinks owlishly at Gladio. “Instead of doing _this_ every night,” he pauses to wave at Gladio building a temporary shelter, “why don’t we just find a nice spot and build something permanent? We’ve been walking around half of Lucis. You have to know a good place by now.”

He does.

* * *

The majority of fall passes in an exhausted blur as Gladio builds his own miniature cabin on the riverbank. He’s a survivalist, not an architect, and it’s more lopsided shack than cabin, but as the first chill of winter coasts through the crisp autumn air, he has a new place to call home.

“Good job,” Noct says from beside him, arms folded over his chest as he examines Gladio’s handiwork. He leans against Gladio’s shoulder with a little smile. “No more getting caught out in the rain now.”

“Yeah,” Gladio agrees. “Thanks.” There’s a tickle of emotion at the back of his mind like a bright itch. Pride.

He’s stopped arguing with Noct about being real or a figment of his imagination. He’s just grateful for the company.

* * *

Gladio hibernates for the winter. Hunt, eat, sleep, repeat. A simple, uncomplicated rhythm that keeps his hands occupied and his mind busy. Thankfully, it doesn’t get cold enough in Lucis for the river to freeze solid, which means Gladio’s source of fresh water lasts throughout the season.

The cabin begins to feel like home in truth. There’s a forest green bedroll on one side of the shelter and an axe in the opposite corner, both items purchased from a brief and pragmatic trip into town for supplies. A little makeshift fireplace blazes, twigs crackling in the stone hearth. He even hung some herbs to dry for the winter and they lend his shack a pleasant, earthy smell.

(There are quiet moments, moments where his hands are idle and Noct is nowhere to be found, when Gladio begins to sense the looming miasma of the life he left behind, but it’s frighteningly easy to throw up a wall between his present and his past, to block reality from seeping in.)

“Hey, Gladio, look,” Noct says one morning, standing in the crooked doorway of the cabin. Unlike Gladio, who also purchased a heavy coat on his single supply run, Noct still wears a flimsy t-shirt and decorative jacket.

“What is it?” Gladio asks, rising from the cold floor and standing behind Noct.

Had he waited a couple seconds, he wouldn’t have needed to ask.

Snow falls in heavy sheets from a slate grey sky. How long has it been since Gladio’s seen real snow? It happened occasionally in the World of Ruin, a byproduct of magic rather than nature. But here and now, the pristine white blanket that coats everything from the grass to the trees to the parts of the river frozen over… it’s the genuine article.

“Pretty,” Gladio comments. He assumed it would be a rote response, but he finds an authentic—albeit faint, flickering, quiet—sense of pleasure at the sight.

Been a while since that, too.

“Yeah,” Noct agrees.

They stand together in the doorframe. Gradually, Gladio winds his arm around Noct’s shoulders, and Noct threads his arm behind Gladio’s waist, and it feels almost perfect.

(It would feel entirely perfect if a small, unshakeable part of Gladio’s mind didn’t know half of the scenario is completely fictional.)

“Isn’t it almost Yuletide?” Noct asks.

“Maybe. Ain’t like I have a way of keeping track out here,” Gladio replies.

“Well…” Noct begins, glancing up at Gladio through his fringe of hair. “What’s stopping us from celebrating anyway?”

Gladio opens his mouth to answer and finds he doesn’t have a good reason not to.

So they do.

* * *

Like life, nature has a way of marching forward, the seasons ever turning. The snow melts, the river flows, the bare branches begin to sprout tiny buds of green.

Spring arrives.

“I was thinking…”

“Uh oh,” Gladio interrupts, shifting on his bedroll to lay on his side and face Noct.

“How do you feel about a fishing trip? Remember that time we went out to the Vesperpool? And the catoblepas?” Noct has his arms behind his head, knees drawn up towards his chest, and stares at the ceiling.

“Nah, that was in the marsh. You’re getting it mixed up,” Gladio says.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. But you didn’t answer the question. Fishing trip?”

Gladio doesn’t voice his first question— _Can you even fish?_ “What about the house?” he asks instead.

“Pretty rich to call it a house, Gladio, even for you, woodsman and romantic at heart. Besides… how long have we been here? And no one’s come knocking on our door? You’re a good navigator, so it’s not like we’ll lose our way back. We’ll be fine.”

 _We’ll be fine_. There’s so much irony in what Gladio is 99.9% sure is a hallucination reassuring him that he’ll be fine that he can’t begin to unpack it all. It’s made even more ironic because Gladio’s absolutely certain the actual Noct wouldn’t be nearly so accommodating in the same circumstances. Then again, maybe that’s an advantage of having a traumatic schism in your psyche that manifests as the only person you ever truly loved with all your heart.

You get the best parts of them.

“You’re right. We’ll be fine.”

Noct whoops in joy.

* * *

As Gladio makes the weeks long trek out to the Vesperpool, true to Noct’s word, he feels fine.

Better than fine.

Though he’s lost bulk, his stamina is nearly back to where it was pre-dawn, and he has extensive practice setting up one person shelters as he travels. (He still leaves a little extra space in the shelter, just in case.) He continues to stay off the main roads, because he’s not sure strangers are a luxury he can afford, even though he feels…

Normal. Whatever normal is.

Normal enough to appreciate little details along the trip: the rich purple of a particular sunset, sunrise over the distant mountain range, whimsical shapes in the clouds, tiny petals of red and yellow wildflowers, the distinctive cry of a hawk high overhead, a piece of raw quartz glittering on the ground. As he takes it all in, another thought occurs to him.

Gladio hasn’t thought about death or dying for months. Since fall, at least.

He smiles widely to himself—another first.

By the time he arrives at the Vesperpool proper, Gladio can almost believe he’s been on a long sabbatical instead of… whatever he’s actually been doing. He can almost believe this was a choice made with a clear mind and not in a moment of desperation. He can almost believe… almost anything.

Gladio purchases a rod and assorted tackle from the tiny shack along the docks with gil from a hunt he took on the way here. He’d thought after the dawn, this place would be back to its tourist trap appeal, but it seems like he’s the only one gracing the shores on this beautiful, balmy day.

Suits Gladio fine.

He picks a spot on the exact opposite side of the lake from the vendor, takes off his shoes, sits down on the dilapidated dock, baits his hook, and casts his line.

“This is awesome,” Noct says quietly beside him, his own rod in hand. His legs are crossed under him, a tacklebox resting just within reach.

(When Gladio glances out at the water, he only sees a disturbance in the surface where his own lure rests.)

“It is,” Gladio replies.

If Gladio closes his eyes for more than a handful of seconds, he can feel the lull of the past tugging at his memory, as gentle and persistent as ocean waves. A strange sense of deja vu settles over him. He’s re-created an event from eleven years ago in perfect form, down to the dock and the type of rod. It’s a bizarre meeting of past and present, and yet…

It’s peaceful. Reassuring.

Closure.

“Sucks we never got to do this without… y’know, all the crap,” Noct says, like he’s reading Gladio’s own thoughts.

“At least we get to do it now,” Gladio offers.

A fish nibbles on his line, a vesper gar with enough strength in it that his line nearly snaps. He manages to reel it in though, aided by Noct’s soft encouragement, and then releases it back into the lake.

“So… we should talk.”

Dread combines with the deja vu in a sickening slurry. “About what?” Gladio asks cautiously.

Noct sets his rod down on the dock with a soft thunk. “You’re really gonna make me be that guy, huh?”

“Like you haven’t done it enough over the years.”

“True.” Noct huffs out a breath, his bangs fluttering with the air he expels. “Look, Gladio… you’re doing great. Healthy as a garula. You’ve got a nice little place you can settle down at. Extra supplies.”

The dread multiplies. “Yeah?”

“So what I’m trying to say is…” Noct mutters, rakes a hand through his hair, a perfect copy of his nervous habit from life. “I think I’ve done all I can for you. And if I’m honest, I think you should go back to the real people out there who still care about you. Stop settling for half a life and start living a full one, you know?”

“You’re leaving me,” Gladio says. “Again.” His heart beats with a terror it hasn’t felt since he fled from a run down Crow’s Nest months and months ago.

Noct meets his eyes. Real or imaginary, there are tears glistening in their sapphire depths. “Probably should, yeah. I know… I wish I could have told you, back then. About what was gonna go down. But I guess… the way I see it, the time we did have together… wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“It’s not about _us_ , it’s about the ten whole years I _waited_ for you, Noct. Waited, and hoped, and got you back at the end just to lose you in the _same damn night!_ ” Gladio realizes he’s standing, yelling, and some part of him hopes no one comes to investigate, but the larger part demands answers. “You didn’t even let me come with you! All I got was your _body_ after!”

“I know,” Noct whispers, copying Gladio and standing up too. “I know, and I’m sorry. But I didn’t… I thought I was sparing you from something. I realize now that I wasn’t, not really.” The tears spill down his cheeks in tiny rivulets.

“I can’t do this without you,” Gladio protests through his own sudden, gut wrenching sorrow, through a mirror of the tears streaming down Noct’s face. “Please don’t go again.”

“That’s just it though, ‘Dio,” Noct says softly. “You _have_ been doing it without me for almost a year now. Isn’t it time you got a little help, too?”

Shit. He’s… right. Gladio’s tears redouble under the weight of this realization. Long dormant emotions—sorrow, love, anger, longing, shame, hope—combine like a thunderstorm inside of him, each pang of feeling a strike of lightning. Every sleeping limb in his body has come wide awake. He tries to speak and finds his words trapped in his throat.

“Don’t want you to go,” Gladio says plaintively.

“I don’t want to either, big guy.” Noct attempts a grin. “Look at it this way, though. It’s my turn to be kept waiting.”

“That a promise?” A lifeline of hope to last him decades more.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Noct says.

Gladio closes his eyes, tears still burning hot beneath his eyelids. There’s a brush against his cheek that could be anything from a passing zephyr to the shadow of Noct’s lips.

When he opens his eyes, Noct is gone, and Gladio feels like he’s woken from a year long dream.

* * *

A month later, Gladio sits alone in a booth at a Crow’s Nest—unless you count his hiking backpack, which takes up the rest of his side. He’s finished a plate of fries and his half empty glass of cola sweats condensation on the olive green plastic of the table.

There’s also his phone and charger.

Gladio eyes the items cautiously, as though they’ll rear back and strike him like some sort of venomous serpent. Though the phone somehow survived a year of close calls and rough living, it’s just as likely that the service was disconnected around the time he disappeared. He’s so sure of this fact that he almost stuffs the phone and charger back in his bag, almost prepares to go back to his secluded cabin along the riverbank and never contemplate homecoming again.

A second urge follows the first—the notion that bravery, like any muscle, has to be built up in small, sequential acts.

He plugs in the phone and is met with the picture of a flashing battery.

Of course. Gladio chuckles to himself.

One more plate of fries later, the phone begins to reboot. Gladio stares at it apprehensively. On his way back towards civilization, he imagined every variation of every message that may or may not be waiting for him, so he doesn’t think there will be any big surprises. Still…

The idea of reconnecting with the first thirty-three years of his life sparks a certain sense of existential terror.

The phone reboots.

The text messages flood in.

* * *

**Iris:** Gladdy? I heard about your resignation. Please text me.

 **Iris:** Seriously, Gladdy, this isn’t funny. We’re all worried. Ignis and Prompto don’t know where you went. I even asked Cor, and you know he still scares me a little.

 **Iris:** I hope you’re okay.

 **Iris:** Please come home. We can work this out. We can help.

 **Iris:** Gladdy I’m really worried and I told them to keep your phone on in case you decide to call but this is really scary and I miss you and I can’t sleep and I can’t eat and if you read this please call or come back.

 **Iris:** I’ll never forgive you for this.

 **Iris:** I didn’t mean that I would never forgive you. I’m sorry, Gladdy. I can’t imagine what you’re going through, and I can forgive you. I wish I had the CHANCE to forgive you. I know Ignis and Prompto are having a hard time too, and I think this would just be easier if you came back and we could get through this together. I love you.

 **Iris:** A Hunter says they saw you in Taelpar, but when me and Cor went, you weren’t there. I guess… I don’t know, you’re pretty hard to miss, so I guess I believe her, but I also don’t want to believe her, you know? Because if you ARE alive, and you’re out there, and you won’t come home… I don’t know.

 **Iris:** Happy birthday to me. Wish you were here.

 **Iris:** 6 months without you. Don’t know why I send these. You’re never coming back.

 **Iris:** I hope you come back soon. I’m gonna be so mad at you, though. Just warning you.

 **Iris:** Good night.

 **Iris:** Visited Mom and Dad’s graves without you today. Next time, you’re buying the flowers.

 **Iris:** Happy Yuletide.

 **Iris:** Happy birthday, Gladdy. Hope you’re celebrating wherever you are. I’m back in our old house, so you know the way home, and the front door is always open.

* * *

**Prompto:** hey dude igs told me about the resignation??? u okay?

 **Prompto:** look i know i got banned from the group chat during the world of fun for ‘abuse of resources’, but the sun is back! birds are chirping! me and igs are worried! text your old pal prompto back for old time’s sake?

 **Prompto:** alright, u’ve forced my hand, i know my kingsglaive protocol for missing persons. prepare to be bureaucracy’d

 **Prompto:** jk i didn’t know but i asked cor and ur officially on the back of milk cartons now, dude

 **Prompto:** always thought the three of us would make it thru anything. guess i was wrong.

 **Prompto:** hah, sorry about the last message man, it’s been crazy around here. didn’t mean to be a downer. did u know aranea’s sticking around insomnia? says we can’t be trusted not to screw things up the second time around. she might have a point.

 **Prompto:** i got a promotion today! yay, me! too bad ur not here to be the one to boss me around

 **Prompto:** took a nice pic of some flowers today. thought u might like to see. [FLOWER.JPG]

 **Prompto:** (it’s a gladiolus flower. because i miss u. get it?)

 **Prompto:** hey buddy, haven’t texted in a while, but big news this yuletide. Igs and I are tying the knot! getting hitched! signing up for the good ol’ ball and chain! gross, right? anyway, if ur getting these and ignoring them, now would be the time to stop.

 **Prompto:** he wanted to wait for u, u know.

 **Prompto:** but i get it, man. we all have our damage. but life moves on. blah blah blah.

 **Prompto:** u r officially speaking to the happiest married man in insomnia. or, reading to. whatever. texting counts. anyway, if u ever DO come back, i’ll expect double the wedding gifts. manual labor to renovate our bathroom. something boring and horrible.

 **Prompto:** wish u could have been there.

 **Prompto:** happy birthday, big guy.

 **Prompto:** i’ve been slacking on the ‘letters to gladio’ front, but i woke up this morning and thought of u. still optimistic. still hopeful. still your friend. xoxo prompto

* * *

**Ignis:** Gladiolus, if your resignation letter was some sort of joke, it was in incredibly poor taste.

 **Ignis:** I’ve never known you to be a self-centered man, but this is beyond unbelievable. Abandoning your post when Lucis needs to be rebuilt from the ground up? Noctis would be ashamed of you.

 **Ignis:** I apologize for my last message. As you may suspect, you’re not the only one having a difficult time with grief. Not a day goes by where I don’t think of Noct… and now, not a day goes by where I don’t think of you, too. I hope you’re well.

 **Ignis:** The days are increasingly long without you, my friend.

 **Ignis:** Prompto and I have decided to get married. As the person I would have elected to be my best man has dropped off the face of Eos, we’ve decided to forgo a wedding party entirely. Makes things a mite less complicated, wouldn’t you agree?

 **Ignis:** [BIRTHDAYDINNER.JPG] As you can see, we laid out a place setting for you at my birthday celebration. Breaded cutlet with tomato, and yes, I did make it myself. Turns out I rather still enjoy cooking after all despite having to re-learn. Additionally, attaching a picture using voice recognition software is harder than I anticipated.

 **Ignis:** Happy birthday, Gladiolus.

* * *

**Cor:** No one can truly understand how hard it is for an Amicitia to lose their king. Wherever you are, Gladio, I hope you’re finding the answers you need… and if the answers you need are back in Insomnia, I’ll be here.

* * *

“I’ve gotta do this alone,” Gladio says.

If Cor has reservations about leaving Gladio alone, he doesn’t show it. “Go ahead. I’ll be outside, and so you’re aware, there’s no back exit out of the mausoleum,” he deadpans.

It’s a good sign Gladio can laugh at Cor’s dry humor. “Don’t worry. Kinda tired of running at this point. I’ll see the others after. I just…” Gladio trails off.

Cor nods with a visceral understanding only he can possess. “Of course.”

He needs to say goodbye to his king. For real, this time.

With that, Gladio pushes the double stone doors of the royal mausoleum open.

Not much has changed since he’s been gone. The place looks cleaner and better maintained; black and silver banners hang in fluid dips from the ceiling, every surface is free of dust, and all the rubble that had cluttered the royal tomb has been cleared. It strikes Gladio for the first time just how many ghosts from his past life rest here: Regis, his dad, his mom…

And Noct.

As his former lover and king’s name crosses his mind, Gladio’s eyes automatically fall on his tomb. It’s the same angular, polished black marble he, Ignis, and Prompto moved that fateful dawn. In the light of day, Gladio could almost call it beautiful.

Beside the tomb rests a single, familiar shield, one whose simple yet sturdy design carried Gladio through countless battles.

He takes one step towards the tomb. Then another. Then another.

The last time he made this journey, each step weighed him down, but this time, each step feels lighter and lighter, shedding the burdens he’s carried by himself for a long, lonesome year. (Each step also rends a gap in his armor, leaves him raw and vulnerable like an exposed nerve, but Gladio has learned the hard way that he’d rather feel everything than feel nothing). There’s a brief urge to turn and leave, to run, but Gladio summons his courage and banishes the instinct to the part of his mind where it can live in dormancy.

No more running.

When Gladio reaches Noct’s tomb, he sits down with his back against it, his shield resting just to the left. The marble cools his body despite the thick leather of his jacket. He focuses on taking deep breaths, one at a time, inhaling the faint library and herb scent of the mausoleum.

Then he speaks.

“So, this is pretty awkward, huh?” Gladio says with a quiet laugh. “Not that you’re here to complain about your Shield taking an extended vacation. But still.

“Alright, let me start over. Hey, Noct. Things have been… intense since you’ve been gone. As you may or may not know. To be honest, I’m not sure I’m all there in the head yet, but that’s what doctors and friends are for, right? Shit… It’s… Yeah. It feels like you’ve been with me this past year. Maybe you were, in a way. Maybe the parts of you I needed were. Hell, I don’t know. I think mostly I’m lucky to be sitting here breathing with how hard I tried to make sure I wasn’t.

“Now that I’ve decided to stick around, it’s been said I need closure, so here’s my best attempt at closure. At honesty.”

Gladio pauses and inhales, long and shaky. Tears preemptively gather in his eyes. When he begins to speak again, those same tears thicken his voice.

“I loved you more than anything. That usually worked out to your benefit—never hurts to have an extra loyal Shield, right?—but now that you’re gone, I… I don’t know what to do. You were my life, Noct, and in a lot of ways, you’ll always be a _part_ of my life. I can’t look at my own skin without being reminded of you, of the oath I swore, and it’s like… learning to live with a missing limb. If I let myself think too long, there’s this _emptiness_ lurking right around the corner, threatening to swallow me whole.

“You asked me… or I asked myself… back during Ravatogh, if I was giving up. Short answer: no. I owe your memory better than quitting, and more importantly, I owe _myself_ better than that. Took me a while to figure that second part out. Longer than I care to admit. But there it is. 

“I’m gonna see Iris and Iggy and Prompto. I’m gonna take it one day at a time. And I’m gonna have faith that I’ll figure out what’s next for me.

“Maybe I’ll come back here someday, when I’m better. When I’m ready. But for now… I guess this is goodbye. And, no offense, but I _really_ hope I don’t see you again for a long, long, _long_ time.” Gladio stands slowly and picks up the shield beside him. “Gonna take this too, just in case. Never know if I might need it again.”

Gladio hastily wipes the free flowing tears from his face. It’s pointless, really, because they still keep coming, but the motion makes him feel better. He lifts his free hand and trails his fingers along the curved carvings that decorate Noct’s tomb.

“Love you, Noct. See you later. Whenever later might be.”

Gladio turns away from the tomb, composes himself as best he can, and exits the mausoleum.

He does not look back.

When he comes out into the underground hallway of the rebuilt Citadel, Cor is waiting for him, true to his word.

“Everything alright?” It’s as close to concern as Cor Leonis has been known to get, and for that, Gladio is immensely grateful.

“It will be.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've ever felt like Gladio, please know you are not alone and you are loved. [You can find resources regarding suicide prevention and crisis here.](https://www.healthline.com/health/mental-health/suicide-resource-guide#2)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are very much appreciated.


End file.
